


Fit To Bursting

by DictionaryWrites2



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Affection, Aziraphale Has A Penis (Good Omens), Belly Kink, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Penis (Good Omens), Dirty Talk, Feeding, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Humiliation, Inflation, Kissing, Light Masochism, Light Sadism, Love, M/M, Stuffing, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18793879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites2/pseuds/DictionaryWrites2
Summary: Note: There's some light humiliation in this, but no bodyshaming, and particularly no fatshaming!“I’d like to feed you,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s mouth, and he watched the way his pupils dilated, watched the inhuman shift in the shape of his eyes as he tried to come closer. Yes. Yes, Crowley did, he did like it— “Would you like that, my dear? Were I to feed you, fit to bursting?”Crowley let out a choked noise.





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale shivered as Crowley shifted in his lap, his hands dragging over the sides of his belly, the water shifting on either side of them in the bath. Aziraphale was laid back against the back of the bath, his hair neatly wrapped up in a towel, and they were settled in amongst thick bubbles and bath salts, each of them settled in hot water in a cloud of thick, white foam.

Crowley liked to be in Aziraphale’s lap, when they were together in the bath[1], liked to straddle his thighs, and now he was dragging his palms over the rounded swell of Aziraphale’s belly, staring down at it with undisguised hunger in his eyes, undisguised  _delight_.

Aziraphale’s skin felt hot and flush in a way that had naught at all to do with sex, and he shivered as Crowley grabbed a handful of flesh, squeezing at it and wriggling in Aziraphale’s lap, saying, “Bless, angel, but I love your body.”

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly, his mouth feeling rather dry. He knew Crowley did, of course. Crowley said so, said that he liked Aziraphale’s body, said that he was  _sexy_ , that he loved how much of him there was, that he loved how much of him there was to grab and kiss and lick and  _worship_ , that he loved the curves and the dips and the pillows of flesh on his body. But he wanted Crowley to talk to him, wanted—

He felt hot, and it had naught to do with the hot water: his skin felt tight, and he didn’t feel especially  _aroused_ , per se, but he wanted, he wanted to  _hear_ —

“Yeah,” Crowley said, leaning down and dragging his mouth over the top of Aziraphale’s belly, the water sloshing about them as he slid  _between_  Aziraphale’s thighs, and Aziraphale let out a fluttering whimper. Aziraphale had fat thighs, rounded and soft, and Crowley liked to be pinned between them, liked it when Aziraphale pressed him in between his legs. “So bloody  _hot_ , Aziraphale. I love how big you are, love this—  _Love this_ ,” he said emphatically, grabbing handfuls at the thick handles at Aziraphale’s sides, and Aziraphale shivered, his head tipping back. “Want to bite and snatch and grab at every part of you, want to  _lick_  you…”

“Yes…?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley’s tongue licked a ticklish stripe over the surface of Aziraphale’s gut, and Aziraphale whined.

“ _Yeah_. I love watching it jiggle when I grab at it, when I slap and pull, love how I can sink right into you, love watching you  _eat_.”

Aziraphale shivered, and he grabbed Crowley by his muscular thighs and backside, pulling him closer, so that Crowley fell against his belly and his chest, sinking against him, and Crowley  _groaned_  against Aziraphale’s chest, biting and kissing at the soft dusting of golden hair on the skin there.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley said, grinding against him in a clumsy, desperate fashion. “I like it, I like to see you—  _Aziraphale_ , I like it, I like it, I want to, let me—”

“No, no,” Aziraphale said, grabbing at Crowley’s fingers when he tried to reach down between them, into the water, and he held his handsome wrist, bringing it up to his mouth and kissing the sensitive skin at the inside, his lips brushing against it. He grabbed his other hand, too, holding the both of them tightly, and Crowley let out a pathetic little noise, his expression plaintive. “Keep talking, my dear, do make use of that infernal tongue of yours and keep talking.”

Crowley exhaled hard, his cheeks flushing red and aglow with blood, and he ground himself desperately between Aziraphale’s legs, against his thigh, making the water splash. “I like it,” he said again. “I like it, angel, like that you’re fat, like to see you eat, you look so good when you eat, like you’re  _enjoying_  it so much… You moan, sometimes, when you have a really good bite of something, and it makes me feel so hot and bothered, really gets me— I like to feed you.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale said, eagerly, squeezing Crowley in with his thighs and delighting in the way Crowley shuddered and jolted between his legs, his hips jumping. “Tell me, dear boy, go on.”

“I like to feed you,” Crowley said, breathing heavier now, all but panting, “I like… I like to think about you, eating, enjoying it, like to think about you getting… I like  _tempting_  you,” Crowley said, and he licked a stripe up Aziraphale’s chest, making him release a yelp. “I like— I  _like_  it, I like it when you put on a little weight, and it’s  _me_ , I took you to dinner, I paid for it, I ordered dessert and only ate a bite and you ate mine too, the  _gluttony_  of it, the decadence, how  _happy_  you look—”

Aziraphale drew him into a kiss, keeping his grip on Crowley’s hands, and Crowley gasped against his mouth, even as his snakeish tongue drew wet against Aziraphale’s: it was clumsy and heated, and Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hands try to tug away from his own, but he kept them gripped fast, even as Crowley fidgeted in the water.

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley said against his mouth, and Aziraphale bit at his lower lip, tugging on it and delighting in the way Crowley moaned. Not too hard, no, only gently, but oh, how Crowley loved it, how he  _showed_  he loved it. “Aziraphale, please, you’re teasing—”

“I know, my dear, I know,” Aziraphale clucked quietly, all faux-sympathy that made Crowley squirm. He rather liked to see Crowley squirm and fidget, to hear him beg, to hear the agonised noises he made when Aziraphale was playing with him for too long, or too softly, that he not be able to reach his release – or even better, when Aziraphale wrought him over the edge again and again, and the pleasure was simply too much. “But I so like to hear you talk, you silver-tongued old serpent… Tell me a little more, hm?”

“ _Angel_ —”

“Please?”

Crowley’s cheeks were gloriously red now, the colour deep and all but glowing from his embarrassed cheeks, his hips thrusting loosely against Aziraphale’s belly, but in the water like this, he knew his cock wouldn’t be able to get enough friction against him, not at all. “I like it when you— ah, angel— I like it when I can feed you, put things in your mouth, feel you lick my fingers… You look like you love it so much, and I can almost imagine you getting bigger right before my eyes—”

Aziraphale so loved this talk. Surely, Crowley did too? He seemed so embarrassed, so overexcited, squirming and begging even as he stumbled through his speech, as he always did, when he was  _very_  affected by something. Aziraphale kissed him again, teased him with it, and Crowley heaved in a desperate gasp. “Angel, you’re driving me mad—"

“I’d like to feed you,” Aziraphale murmured against Crowley’s mouth, and he watched the way his pupils dilated, watched the inhuman shift in the shape of his eyes as he tried to come closer. Yes. Yes, Crowley _did_ , he did like it— “Would you like that, my dear? Were  _I_  to feed  _you_ , fit to bursting?”

Crowley let out a choked noise.

“Yes, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Aziraphale asked softly, drawing him closer in the steaming water, brushing their noses against one another and feeling himself thrill at Crowley’s wail of desire. “It wouldn’t take much, I’m sure, my dear, to satiate your hunger, and then feed you up, just a little beyond your limits—”

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale—”

It took but a thought for them to be out of the bathwater and in their bed, in the same position, Crowley kneeling between Aziraphale’s legs, the both of them abruptly dry, and within the moment Crowley was thrusting mindlessly against Aziraphale’s belly, his cock slick and wet as he ground himself against the soft swell of flesh.

“That’s it, my dear,” Aziraphale crooned softly, giving him a warm little smile as Crowley’s cock slid against him, his movements so eager as to be jolting and irregular, and he hungrily listened for all of Crowley’s desperate little keens and whines as they eked from his handsome throat. “Won’t you come for me, Crowley? I do so love to see you—”

Crowley hissed, stiffening and grabbing at Aziraphale as he did, and Aziraphale exhaled hard at the hot spatter of it on his skin, the satisfaction of  _feeling_  Crowley’s bliss, at hearing his serpentine noises. And so  _quickly_ : this was a favourable sign indeed.

“Oh, darling boy,” Aziraphale said softly, releasing his hands, and immediately, Crowley fell forward, nuzzling against his chest and grasping for handfuls of his flesh, sinking into Aziraphale as if hoping he may melt into him. “Darling, beautiful boy, so handsome, so eager…” He stroked over Crowley’s arse, gently squeezing the muscled flesh, and Crowley groaned.

“Angel, you’ll  _dissscorporate_  me.”

“Lovely thing,” Aziraphale murmured in his ear, kissing the side of his temple. “Dissolute and desperate, sluttish little charm of the ages, but  _lovely_.”

Crowley shuddered.

Aziraphale smiled.

“Would you like me to do that, my darling?” Aziraphale asked as he felt Crowley sprawl as liquid upon him, pressing his nose and into his chest and letting his tongue flicker out, just to taste him: Crowley did that, at times, liked to  _taste_ , just liked to take him on his tongue. “I’d love to see your taut little stomach made fat with a good meal, just as it used to be—”

Crowley groaned, heaved in a little breath, and didn’t seem fit to raise speech in response, but he nodded eagerly, silently, and Aziraphale beamed, drawing his fingers through Crowley’s handsome head of hair and gently tapping his backside with the other hand.

“Darling thing,” he murmured. “You go to sleep, my dear, you sleep.”

Crowley did.

As he did, idly drawing circles upon the smooth, sun-browned canvas of his lover’s back, Aziraphale thought upon a menu.

 

[1] Or, indeed, anywhere else.


	2. Chapter 2

It was months later, that Aziraphale began giving him directions in the car, taking him over to a hotel outside of London, a  _beautiful_  little place they’d been once or twice before, owing to a restaurant with a Michelin Star and, more importantly,  _exactly_  the sort of menu that served the both of them well.

Certainly, they had the sort of food Crowley enjoyed: bright and exciting tastes, to be tried in little pieces, in combination. Crowley was not like Aziraphale, in his tastes. Aziraphale preferred subtle flavours, and hearty, comforting meals, the sort of meals that settled heavy in the stomach and kept one warm for the whole of a day; Crowley preferred little morsels of the avant-garde, liked hot spice and cold mint, liked strong flavours that left one’s head spinning.

Of course, Aziraphale still  _liked_  Crowley’s food, and Crowley certainly still liked Aziraphale’s: Crowley was always picking little pieces from Aziraphale’s plate, and in their  _lifetime_ , Crowley didn’t believe he had ever complained about Aziraphale taking his plate and finishing what Crowley had left.

Crowley knew it was  _decadent_ , to order a slice of cake when he would eat only a bite or two, but if Aziraphale would finish it, what was the harm? And no, perhaps Aziraphale  _wouldn’t_  usually order a rabbit stew, or a lobster thermidor, would order something cheaper, more modest, but if Crowley egged him on,  _begged_  him to order it, so that he could have a taste—

Aziraphale would.

And the pleasure of eating himself, Crowley didn’t think, the pleasure of tasting the several dishes the two of them usually spread between them in the course of a meal, was  _nothing_  compared to the pleasure of seeing Aziraphale eat.

He remembered the first time he’d tempted the angel into eating. They’d eaten a meal  _together_ , he remembered, the both of them sitting in some luxuriant house on the edge of a verdant forest, and he said if Aziraphale would let him tempt him with gluttony, he would listen to any moralistic lecture Aziraphale wanted to give him, and Aziraphale had talked and talked and talked, and between words, he would let Crowley press morsels of meat and cheese and sweet paste and fruit into his mouth, and such  _noises_  as he’d made, soft moans of pleasure at the taste, the way he chewed so  _delicately_ , the way he swallowed—

 

He’d made Crowley eat, too. He’d fed him a bite for every bite Crowley had fed him, not realising that Crowley lacked his appetite until Crowley had awkwardly –  _politely_  – told him so. He’d been so embarrassed, and Crowley had felt  _sleepy_ , giving into his serpentine instincts and sprawling in Aziraphale’s lap, bundled in the skirt of his handsome robes, as a snake.

As he’d dropped hazily into sleep, he’d been aware of Aziraphale still eating, finishing the rest of the plate they’d been sharing, and he’d felt warm and comfortable in his place, liquid scale in his lap.

“We going to dinner, angel?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale demurred. “It’s a surprise, dear boy.”

He had that wonderful, secretive smile on his face, the little quirk of plump lips that made his cheeks dimple, and Crowley felt himself shift slightly in the seat of the Bentley, looking forward onto the road. They pulled into the carpark, and Crowley expected to walk into the restaurant, but Aziraphale lead Crowley by his hand into the reception.

The receptionist was a put-together young woman who glanced between the two of them, and then put on a very warm little smile. “Good morning,” she said sweetly. Her name tag read  _Karen_. “Welcome to  _La Terre_ , can I help?”

“You certainly can, my dear,” Aziraphale said, passing a sheet of printed paper over the desk, and she looked at it thoughtfully. “Reservation for Mr Fell.”

“Ah, in our deluxe suite, Mr Fell,” she said, turning over to her computer and making a complicated clacking, her long nails seeming, in Crowley’s mind, at odds with tapping against the hard blocks of the keyboard, but she didn’t seem to struggle. “King-size bed, with our luxury en suite, for three nights?”  _Three nights_. Three nights! Three nights!

“That’s right,” Aziraphale said serenely, still holding Crowley’s hand, and Crowley could see her eyes glittering, could see  _precisely_  what she was thinking, what they looked like…

Usually, Crowley liked making it clear that  _he_  was the one in charge, that it was  _him_  looking after  _Aziraphale_ : he liked to pay for dinner, liked to pull the angel’s chair out for him or let Aziraphale lean on his arm, liked to  _pamper_  him. People were always surprised, because of how they looked, because they just assumed—

Right now, the heat of those assumptions was burning the back of his neck, and he could feel his cheeks blushing, the tips of his ears burning, and he looked down at the rather nice, marble floor. Because what it looked like, what people were assuming… And they were all but  _confirming_  their assumptions, with Aziraphale talking to the receptionist and Crowley blushing and saying nothing beside him, Aziraphale holding his  _hand_ , and Crowley had to restrain himself from hiding his face in the angel’s shoulder to escape the prickling burn, not of embarrassment, but merely the weight of other people’s  _knowing_  scrutiny.

This is what they looked like, they looked  _precisely_  like…

And he  _liked_  it.

Aziraphale, short and round and  _chubby_ , with his anaemically blond curls, his tartan-patterned jumper, his  _tie_ , his cream-coloured trousers, his brown brogues, appearing for all the world like a man in his well-preserved fifties, perhaps a librarian or accountant or – of course – bookshop owner; Crowley, tall and hard-angled and slim, with his coiffed hair, his tightly tailored black suit, his snakeskin shoes, his sunglasses, appearing for all the world like a man in his late twenties, perhaps the librarian or accountant or bookshop owner’s favourite toy.

He only just caught it, the end of the sentence, as Karen said, “… special considerations will be prepared for about seven-thirty?”

“Seven-thirty… Oh, delightful, we should have more than enough time for a bath, then. Thank you ever so much, my dear.”

“It’s our pleasure, Mr Fell,” Karen said brightly, and Crowley felt even more heat burn under his skin at the idea, at  _special_  considerations, a bath, what did that mean? He was going to ask, going to play up being shy and demure and  _ask_ —

And then an old woman, maybe seventy, came past them from the elevator, looked at him and Aziraphale, and  _tutted_. Immediately, although still feeling his blush, Crowley plastered himself against Aziraphale’s side, winding his hand in the angel’s hair, and Aziraphale laughed, patting his hip.

“Oh, my dear—”

“Angel, let’s go up to the  _room_ ,” Crowley said, allowing just a hint of a whine to creep into his voice, and Aziraphale followed his gaze to the old woman, who looked horrified, and Crowley saw his plump lips smirk.

“So  _impatient_ ,” he chided, and tapped the side of his backside – it wasn’t enough to hurt, not at all, but the fact that he did it  _here_ , in the lobby of a nice hotel, in plain sight of everybody, made Crowley thrill.

“Here’s your room key, Mr Fell,” Karen said evenly, pretending politely not to hear them, holding it out. “Would you like another one for your… companion?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said, with a beatific, innocent smile that somehow shone with untold measures of eroticism, and Crowley had to suppress a shiver. “No, I believe my  _companion_  will be on a tight leash throughout. One key should do us well enough.”

Crowley bit down on his lip to keep from making out a noise, but Karen, excellent receptionist as she was, didn’t even flinch, and simply gave them a warm, friendly smile. “Very good, Mr Fell. Seven-thirty, and we’ll call before anyone comes up.”

“ _Wonderful_ : my dear, you are a star. Thank you!”

“Thanksss,” Crowley echoed, and Karen smiled at the both of them as Aziraphale drew Crowley toward the lift by his waist, apparently unwilling to release his hold about the demon’s middle now he had it. The old lady walked out, stomping her foot, and Crowley saw her begin muttering furiously to a man of the same age, who seemed blank-faced and inured to her tirade. “Are you going to put me on a  _leash_?” he asked as the lift doors closed shut, and Aziraphale laughed, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Three  _nights_ , angel, we didn’t bring any other clothes, they’re going to think we’re just going to have sex the whole time!”

“And why shouldn’t they think that, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley grabbed him by his tie, kissing him hard, feeling the way Aziraphale sighed against his tongue, letting Crowley kiss him, letting Crowley kiss him so hard that he would have bruised a lesser mouth, but Aziraphale never liked it, having his lips kissed into plumpness, when they were already so plump.

Crowley could scarcely stand the anticipation as Aziraphale drew him into the room, and it was—

It was a  _nice_  room. Big,  _very_  big, with a wide, luxurious bed and a little round table set for two, a cloth on the table, a wide table with another cloth set against one wall. It looked  _nice_ , to have the table set out, but two? Maybe it was a buffet, something like that, Crowley wasn’t sure—

“Let’s get you in the bath, my love,” Aziraphale murmured as he closed the door shut behind them, and he drew Crowley into the bathroom, where the bath was already drawn and steaming, because they both expected it to be. The scent of lavender and rose oil were both thick in the air, and Crowley looked at the bath with delight: it was one of those corner baths, more than big enough for the two of them, and Crowley swallowed as Aziraphale reached up, beginning to undo Crowley’s tie.

“What are we doing?” Crowley asked as Aziraphale unknotted his tie, setting it aside, and then began unbuttoning his shirt little by little, his plump hands moving with surprising speed and grace, and then he eased the blazer and shirt both from Crowley’s shoulders, leaving him naked in his place.

“My dear,  _I_  am doing what I please, and  _you_  are going to do as I say.” There was a note of divine authority in his voice, a flicker of fire in his watery blue eyes, and Crowley felt himself quiver.

“Oh,” Crowley said, slightly hoarsely, and he stared down at Aziraphale’s hands as he unbuckled Crowley’s belt, delicately undoing it and setting it aside, having Crowley step out of his trousers and his tight silk boxers, out of his shoes… Crowley, now naked, reached for Aziraphale’s tie, but Aziraphale smacked his hand away, the movement sharp and perfunctory, and Crowley hissed in delight. “What, angel?” he asked, ignoring the twist of arousal burning in his belly. “I can’t touch you, now?”

“Not until I let you, my dear,” Aziraphale said primly, and he tapped the edge of the bath. “Chop chop.”

Crowley hesitated, but then he obeyed, stepping over the edge of the bath and slowly sinking into the hot water, letting out a satisfied hiss and letting his eyes shut closed as he leaned back against the edge. Aziraphale reached out, gently drawing Crowley’s sunglasses from over his face, and Crowley let him, sinking in the water and listening to the soft shift of it around him.

He felt through his eyelids the shift in light as the bathroom lights dimmed to a pleasant, romantic glow[1].

When he opened his eyes again, Aziraphale was just unbuttoning his sleeve, kneeling down beside the bath, Crowley watching hungrily as he delicately parted his shirt cuff, bearing the soft, delicate meat of his plump wrist, pale and creamy in the light, and Crowley leaned forward to taste, to  _bite_ , but Aziraphale clucked his tongue disapprovingly and withdrew. Crowley groaned, but he watched as Aziraphale neatly, fastidiously folded back the red cuff of his jumper, in neat lines with the pale shirt beneath, and showing off his forearm, too.

 “Let me,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale ignored him, remaining tantalisingly out of reach as he unbuttoned the other cuff, too, beginning to neatly fold it back, and Crowley  _wanted_. He loved the way Aziraphale’s hands looked, plump and soft, just the sort of thing you could sink your teeth into, although he never would, not into his hands, not into his hands… Sometimes, if Aziraphale fed him, he’d lick his fingers, taste them: his fingers tasted of paper and ink and whatever he’d last been eating, and Crowley— “Let me,” he said again, eagerly, and Aziraphale drew the sleeve back to his forearm.

The angel shifted forward on his knees, and he reached up, drawing his fingers through Crowley’s hair, and Crowley leaned to kiss him, but Aziraphale’s fingers gripped him tightly and held him still, and Crowley heaved in a gasp at the tension pulling on his scalp.

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley said. “Let me kiss you.”

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale replied. “Down, now. Get your hair wet.”

Crowley let Aziraphale push him down, his palm a warm pressure on the top of his head, and he closed his eyes as he dipped beneath the water, and Aziraphale’s fingers tousled through the wet locks, making sure they were wet enough before he drew him up again in a loose grip. Crowley felt the water drip down his face as Aziraphale gently pulled his hair back from his face, and he heard the quiet  _click_  of one of the little hotel shampoo bottles, releasing a low groan as Aziraphale’s hands began to lather the stuff into his hair.

Aziraphale’s fingers were soft and clever and elegant, and Crowley softly sighed as he felt Aziraphale’s blunt fingernails scratch slightly at his scalp, dragging the shampoo luxuriantly through every lock of thick, dark hair.

“I remember when you had it longer,” Aziraphale murmured against the back of his neck, pressed up against the side of the bath. “I used to love it dearly, that darling hair you had, ever tied just here.” He blew on the nape of Crowley’s neck, and Crowley shivered. “I expect you looked a picture in your bed, hm? All those dark curls, a cascade upon your pillow… But that was so long ago.  _Centuries_.” It was. He’d had his hair long in the 18th century, he thought, as a man, before he’d worn a woman for a while… “Down again, my dear.”

Aziraphale pushed him, even as he gave the instruction, and Crowley let Aziraphale’s hands press him beneath the water, once more tousling through the locks and rinsing them through before letting him up again.

“Such a beautiful thing,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley shuddered. He  _was_  a beautiful thing, he was. He had always liked to be beautiful, liked to be  _striking_ : he had modelled, over the millennia, for all manner of artists, painters, sculptors. He had played muse to musicians and poets, had enjoyed the way they lusted after his body, or better,  _yearned_  after his heart… Aziraphale had always hated that he did that, but he drew them to make such beautiful things, and that was his  _own_  misbehaviour, the sort of thing Hell would never approve of— “So lovely, my dear boy. I’m going to take such good care of you this evening.”

“You always do,” Crowley mumbled, and he felt Aziraphale smile, kissing his shoulder as he leaned forward, taking hold of a little box with a flannel in, and gently unfolding it from its plastic bag and pouring a little soap upon the cloth. “What are you going to…?”

“Oh, such  _questions_ ,” Aziraphale chided, nipping at Crowley’s earlobe, and Crowley sucked in a breath between his teeth. “Now, we really must discuss, my dear, the conditions of the evening.” Aziraphale was drawing the washcloth in circles upon his shoulders, and Crowley let his eyes close as Aziraphale pressed down on the muscle. “Are you listening?”

“ _Yesss_ ,” Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale rubbed a line at the back of his neck, scrubbing the soft suds into his skin, and he loved the way the tension melted into nothing beneath the skin, soothed away by the massage of the soaped flannel.

“Alright,” Aziraphale murmured. “Now, I’m going to do what I like to you, and I expect you will want to protest, and make a show of—  _Of_  your protest, hm? And I would hardly be, ah, dismayed, were you to play it up a bit, as I know is your wont.  _Please, stop, I’ll die_ , is such a delightful thing to hear when it comes from this throat of yours, dear boy.”

For a moment, Crowley was lost in the sensation of Aziraphale’s hand, wrapped in the flannel, upon his throat, easing back and forth over the skin, but then it  _clicked_  in his head, and his eyes opened wide, his mouth falling open.  _Please, stop, I’ll die?_  Why would he say  _Please, stop, I’ll die?_  And he said it so  _conversationally_ , so casually, so beatifically—

Crowley’s cock, in one burst of liquid heat, was hard between his legs, and his breath hitched on his next inhale.

“Oh,” he choked out. “Angel—”

“But we need a word, don’t we?” Aziraphale pressed on, so innocently, as if he had no idea that Crowley was suddenly squirming in his bathwater, his hips thrusting against nothing at all. “A nice little safeword. Like we did last May, with the wax.”

The memory assaulted Crowley all at once: Crowley, on his back, fucked for hours and hours on end, Aziraphale making use of his inhuman constitution to hammer over his prostate again and again and again, leaving him feeling like he would  _die_ … And then Aziraphale had dripped wax over his exhausted body, over his thighs, his back. Crowley had had a safeword, but he hadn’t needed it: the hot pain had been awe-inspiring.

“Is Eden alright again?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, unable say much more. Would Aziraphale fuck him like that again? He liked it when Aziraphale took control, but when he  _really_ wanted to take control, when he  _really_  wanted to… “Yeah. Eden’s fine.”

“Good,” Aziraphale murmured. “Good, my dear boy,” he said softly, and the flannel rubbed in circles over Crowley’s chest, tweaking over his nipples as he did so, and Crowley groaned, leaning back against the edge of the bath, moaning softly. “I do cherish you, you know. My heart aches for the want of you, when you are gone from me, my love, and that’s why I’m going to visit such exquisite tortures upon you tonight, that you might be satisfied.”

Crowley moaned, his head tipping back as Aziraphale’s hand slid smooth down over the taut, muscled flesh of his belly. He was built like a gymnast, all over: light, rippling muscle that built him up from his head down to his toes, but it was an  _inhuman_  muscle, if one looked at it closely. He just had too many vertebrae in a spine that wasn’t nearly as human as it pretended to be, and his collarbones and pelvis could twist around if he wanted… This was really the best he could do, honestly. The muscle remained all over, and he remained flexible, remained twisting; his bones were more numerous than a human’s, and smaller, and he could fit into unlikely spaces; the soles of his feet tended to scales… He  _concentrated_ , on his face. He couldn’t do a thing about his eyes, but he could try to control the snakeish lisp, try to make sure his teeth didn’t look too sharp, but when he lost concentration—

He couldn’t help it.

This was just how he  _was_ , all but bursting out of a human body.

They  _gave_  him the regular sorts of bodies, and everyone had their own stamp, their own way to fill out one of the bodies that the office handed out, but Crowley’s always ended up corrupted as soon as he put them on, and he could only make himself  _so_  human… But what did it matter?

The humans never noticed. They never noticed anything, if you didn’t want them to.

Aziraphale sighed against his ear, pressing down on his belly, and Crowley let out a low noise.

“Lovely serpent,” Aziraphale said softly. Crowley could taste his  _love_  on the air, could taste Aziraphale mingled in amidst the soap suds and the smell of the hot water, and that was one of the benefits, too, of a serpentine biology: he tasted the air, had a strong sense of taste in general, could unhinge his jaw, could swallow things most people couldn’t… Of course, if he ate too much, he’d need to sleep for a while, and he had the occasional instinct to hibernate. “So lovely, my dearest, my only one…”

“You really gonna torture me?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale chuckled, kissing his neck, and he cupped water in one of his hands, drizzling it over his shoulder and rinsing away the soap.

“I shall lavish love and devotion upon you,” Aziraphale said. It sounded like a threat, sweet-toned as it was, and Crowley’s cock gave a little twitch beneath the water.

Aziraphale kept on working his body over, setting the cloth aside that his wet hands might massage his neck, his shoulders, pressing hard upon the muscular fabric of his flesh, laying pressure on the knots of tension, and Crowley hissed out little noises as he leaned back against his fingers.

“What— What are the ssspecial consssiderationsss?” Crowley caught hold of his tongue, frustrated, but Aziraphale leaned in and nuzzled against his mop of wet hair, his blunt, button nose pressing in against Crowley’s scalp, and Crowley groaned as Aziraphale pressed his thumbs either side of Crowley’s spine.

“Oh, you needn’t bother your pretty little head about that,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt a hot thrill of lightning burst from the burgeoning arousal tangled in the base of his stomach, and he inhaled hard.

Aziraphale could be…  _condescending_ , sometimes. He did it with lots of people, liked to make it appear that he was the authority in the room, that people ought listen to him, and Crowley didn’t mind, but when he turned it on  _Crowley_ , it was— It was  _unspeakable_. It was like when people thought he was just the pampered thing on Aziraphale’s arm: sure, it was embarrassing, it was  _mortifying_ , to be boiled down to just some stupid, pretty thing that Aziraphale had chosen to play with, but it was…

He  _liked_  it.

“Can I kiss you?” Crowley asked. “ _Please_?”

“Oh, pretty thing,” Aziraphale murmured, and he gently drew Crowley back, kissing him gently, and Crowley gasped at the  _softness_  of it, giving way to teeth that dragged over Crowley’s lower lip and tugged at it, and it was  _good_ , it was  _wonderful_ — “Now, you relax for me, won’t you? I just need to put together a few things.”

“Aziraphale, I want you to touch me—”

“I know what you want, dear boy, but did I not say you would be doing as  _I_  pleased? I will touch your lovely prick when I wish to.” Aziraphale gave him a soft little smile, tapping the base of his chin, and Crowley opened and closed his mouth, but couldn’t protest as Aziraphale stood up, slipping out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, the door clicking quietly shut behind him.

He relaxed in the water, letting his eyes close again, and the gentle steam and heat of it made him slowly sink into a doze. His breathing was slow and even, and while he wasn’t quite asleep, he wasn’t entirely awake, either. He was only vaguely aware of the noises in the next room, of the door opening, of the quiet clink and clatter of what sounded like plates… Yes, plates, Crowley expected, room service…

When Aziraphale came back into the bathroom for him, he didn’t even try to wake Crowley up properly: he leaned in and lifted him gently from the bath, the moisture steaming away from him and leaving Crowley dry and tactile in his arms, curling up around his neck. He wasn’t even  _conscious_ , not really, only aware of Aziraphale’s warm body, of how soft his jumper felt against Crowley’s bare skin, of how gently he carried Crowley into the over room to sit down…

He came to, a little, as Aziraphale tied the cloth over his eyes.

It was a bandage, like Crowley used to wear, long before eyeglasses were an option: he would wear a bloodied bandage over his eyes, feign to be a beggar or a priest, depending on how much he wanted to be noticed, and either way, he would walk like a man who could see, because he  _could_  see. This one wasn’t stained with blood[2], and it felt gossamer soft against his eyes, tied neatly behind his head.

“’Zirafael,” he mumbled, lips clumsy with sleep, and Aziraphale hushed him softly, fingering through his hair as he drew Crowley to sit in his lap, that his body might rest against the warm pillow of Aziraphale’s belly, his breast.

Was there a better seat in all of creation?

Crowley thought not.

Crowley  _adored_  Aziraphale’s body. Crowley had his effect on the bodies he inhabited: their human features gave way to serpentine ones, and Aziraphale’s… Crowley knew, logically, that Aziraphale had had skinny bodies, and equally, that he had had big, muscular bodies. But their shapes had blurred away to nothingness in Crowley’s memory. He only remembered red cheeks and eyes in a multitude of colours, always plump lips, always rounded features in the face, if nowhere else, and the  _best_  bodies were the ones like this one…  _Decadent_.

It was a beautiful body,  _beautiful_ , all plump curves and wondrous pillows of  _flesh:_ plump hands and plump feet, soft and graceful and  _elegant_ ; thick thighs that were warm and meaty to wrap himself around[3], that formed one beautiful seat when he sat down and brushed against one another when he walked; strong arms that were softened on every side, that felt like he could hug you merely by putting an arm about your shoulder or your waist; his chest, thick with fat and warming to round swells on each side, with golden hair marking the valley between them; his  _belly_ , a great swell of smooth, lovely flesh, dusted over with more gold curls, and to be grabbed at, to be kissed; a rounded neck, perfect for kissing and biting; _his_ face, a wonder in itself, round, cherubic cheeks with a red dusting on their edges, blue eyes the colour of lake water, wan and too pale to be  _traditionally_  handsome, plump lips, a thick chin, and then another one, softer and fat and begging to be licked at…

Aziraphale’s body was the  _definition_  of attractive.

It was attractive in a language Crowley had never learned, but that had been imbued in his bones when he was first clumsily poured into a human form, when the serpentine and the human gelled together forever, inescapably: Aziraphale’s body spoke of decadence and leisure, of indolence and warmth, of plentiful good food and good wine, and Crowley wanted to sink in it, wanted to  _drown_  in it.

He was barely awake.

Drenched in the soft dark of the blindfold, and with Aziraphale’s body warm beneath him, Crowley wriggled a little, and he heard Aziraphale murmur some wordless command to relax in his place, one of his hands cupping the edge of his thigh and his arse, the other one gently tapping his knee.

He smelled it, first.

It came to him, in the hazy, dreamy way that scents do, when you’re only half awake, and then he parted his lips, naturally tasting it on the air…  Aziraphale brought it up to his lips, and he hesitated, tasting the ghost of the rice, the seaweed, the salmon inside the hosomaki, but then he opened his mouth, and he let Aziraphale slide it past his lips, and he chewed very slowly.

It tasted good. He liked sushi, although he didn’t like it as much as Aziraphale did: three or four pieces would usually be more than enough to sustain Crowley for the whole of his meal, but he liked it, he liked it a lot. The smooth, subtle taste of the salmon complemented the sweetness of the rice, the chewy saltiness of the nori, and he swallowed, feeling it slide down his throat.

Aziraphale waited a moment, and then pressed another piece against his mouth, the surface of the fish – smooth and oily and fat, a tuna nigiri – against his lip. He was too sleepy to think too much about it, really: the hot water had relaxed him and coaxed him into this wonderfully dreamy, obedient state, and distantly, Crowley was aware that the angel – just enough of a bastard to be worth liking – had probably done that on purpose.

The thrill it sent up his spine was slow, meandering, but obvious, like a smoke signal.

Crowley opened his mouth.

He took the rice and fish upon his tongue, chewing it slowly, feeling the way the rice smoothed out beneath the shift of his teeth, and the  _fish_ , bless, but the fish was good. It filled his tongue, exploding with flavour, and he grunted softly, chewing and swallowing. There was less of a pause, this time, between that piece and the next, before Aziraphale pressed another nigiri onto his tongue: octopus, this time, and the wasabi in the parcel tasted wonderful, filling his mouth with blissful, cold flavour, and he chewed, swallowed.

Another parcel against his mouth, and then another, and then more: another hosomaki, with avocado; another nigiri, mackerel, this time; a hosomaki with pepper; a nigiri with shrimp. It was too much. This was more sushi than he’d  _ever_  eat at a time, and he shifted slightly in discomfort. He never usually felt  _full_. He never ate enough to feel  _full_ , just enough to be comfortably satisfied, and he was on the way to full, now.

Aziraphale brought something hot and steaming to his mouth, and Crowley obediently opened it, let him gently set a pork dumpling on his tongue, the chopsticks sliding smooth against Crowley’s lip as he withdrew them, and Crowley chewed, feeling the smooth casement of the dumpling smoothly give way beneath his teeth, tasting the salty goodness of the herb-laden pork within.

He swallowed.

He felt the ghost of it on his tongue, lingering, and despite feeling closer to being full, he wanted  _more_ , and he said, “Another? Please?”

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale murmured, his voice warm and full of praise, and another dumpling was brought up to his mouth, letting him chew, and before he swallowed, this time, Aziraphale’s fingers came up to touch his neck, so that he could feel the lump travel down Crowley’s throat as he swallowed.

Crowley shivered.

He was…

He was more awake, now.

“You still going to torture me, angel?” Crowley asked, suppressing a yawn, and Aziraphale chuckled against his temple, setting a gentle kiss against the side of his temple, his fingers playing over Crowley’s hair.

“Some bruschetta,” Aziraphale said quietly, giving no audible sign of having heard the question. He drew a slice of bread up toward Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley swallowed at the  _scent_  of it, at the ghost of taste that hit his palate. He could smell the sautéed mushrooms, smell the creamy sauce around them, and he leaned forward, taking a slow bite of half of the slice, delighting in the way it quietly  _crumbled_ beneath his teeth, the sound a delight to his ears, and in stark contrast to the softness of the jumbled mushrooms piled upon the bread… He chewed, and he  _moaned_ , tasting the richness of it: the thick, earthy taste of the mushrooms, the sweetness of the cream, the thickness of it, the  _pepper_ , the garlic— “Good, my love?”

Crowley grunted a vague affirmative as he chewed, swallowing, and when he opened his mouth to reply, Aziraphale pressed the other half of the bread into his mouth, and Crowley let out a noise of surprise, feeling a few crumbs drop against his chin, but they vanished as soon as he shifted with discomfort. He chewed the bruschetta down, taking it slowly, until he swallowed it down, and then—

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said quietly, and he shifted slightly as he felt the next parcel pressed against his mouth.

“Eat,” Aziraphale said softly.

Crowley opened his mouth, and he bit into the dolmade, tasting the courgette flower as it came apart on his tongue, the rice warm and salted, such a different texture to the sushi rice, and cooked with wine. A piece of brown bread, smeared with baked feta and red pepper, was settled in his mouth, that he might chew on the salty sweetness of it. Pork, cooked in red wine, all but  _melted_  on his tongue. A few chips, twice-fried in olive oil and then goose fat.

Crowley’s stomach  _did_  feel full now, and he shifted, but then Aziraphale waved a  _favourite_  under his nose, and Crowley fidgeted slightly in his place, but then opened his mouth.

A snail, neatly skewed from its shell, cooked in lemon and garlic, and Crowley groaned pitifully as he chewed and swallowed, feeling the garlic  _thrill_  in his mouth… Aziraphale followed it with a slice of some flatbread, upon which was piled some channa chaat. Kimchi came after that, and then a skewer of anticuchos, and then a few spoonfuls of fesenjan—

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley said plaintively. He was full. He was  _full_. He could feel that he was full,  _too_  full, and his stomach gave a little pang of discomfort, a little cramp. “Aziraphale, I can’t— I can’t eat any more, I’m full.”

“Are you?” Aziraphale asked softly, his breath hot against the side of Crowley’s ear. “I think you can eat a little more, my dear… I’m having such a good time, feeding you. I should hate to stop now. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Mmm-mmm,” Crowley hummed, shaking his head slightly, and Aziraphale’s fingers slid slowly over his belly, stroking in a slow circle over the taut surface, and Crowley shuddered in a little breath. His stomach cramped again, but Aziraphale’s hand was warm, and it  _soothed_ …

Aziraphale brought a heaping forkful of lobster thermidor to Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley hissed softly, but he let Aziraphale put it in his mouth, wrapping his lips around it and chewing softly, and it tasted  _good_ , it was excellent, it was wonderful—

It was too much.

“Didn’t I tell you, my dear?” Aziraphale said softly in his ear, and put more bread thick with curried meat in his mouth, so spicy his throat  _sang_ , and he was struggling not to really squirm in Aziraphale’s lap, now, not to writhe and shift in his place, but it was  _hard_. “Taste my love for you, my dear: glut yourself on it.”

“This is the torture,” Crowley said.

“No, darling thing,” Aziraphale whispered, and kissed his cheek, his hand still massaging Crowley’s aching belly, gently palpating the flesh. And then softly, in a quietly intent voice that made Crowley’s cold blood chill to ice in his veins: “Not yet.”

Crowley whimpered.

Aziraphale fed him a mushroom stuffed with meat and cheese; he fed him figs dripping with honey; he fed him some a pie made with spinach and cheese; he fed him goat, and goose, and ostrich—

Crowley was cramping very badly indeed, now. Aziraphale’s hand, moving gently, could not soothe the pain, and there was a  _paunch_  to his belly, a swell to it that he was aware of as Aziraphale’s fingers dragged over its curve, and Crowley couldn’t help the choked noises he meant, the desperate, pained sounds.

The food was good.

The food was  _unfathomably_  good: it was more than Crowley, a man-shaped creature who picked at little morsels and would suffice himself with those, assuming he even recalled to eat a meal in the course of a day, would usually eat in  _months_.

Aziraphale brought a glass of wine to his mouth, and Crowley drank from it, but still he  _hurt_ , his belly aching, the muscles around it shifting and cramping—

“Don’t you remember, my dear boy, my lovely one?” Aziraphale asked, his voice soft and sweet and musical, and it was  _torturous_. “I told you I’d like to, to feed you, fit to bursting.” Crowley moaned, and despite the pain[4], his cock gave a traitorous twitch between his legs, blood rushing downward once more. He gave Crowley another dolmade, this one in a vine leaf instead of a courgette flower, and Crowley groaned around the morsel: it tasted  _delicious_ , but, oh… “You know, my dear, you always talk about my body with such— You do  _flatter_  me, Crowley. I do blush with pride at the things you say.”

“That’s—  _ungh_ , that hurts, angel— That’s the idea.” Aziraphale pressed down on his belly again, just a little pressure, but the pain was  _unspeakable_ , and Crowley choked out a little noise, his thighs spreading slightly. His cock was hard, now, hard against his aching stomach, and now and then Aziraphale would brush against it, so lightly one might almost believe it was accidental, his smallest finger touching tantalisingly against the head of Crowley’s cock before he went back to massaging his swollen gut.

“Mmm, but I don’t think that’s quite it, my dear,” Aziraphale purred, and Crowley wished he could see his face, wished he could  _see_  him, see the food, wished… Aziraphale drew a thick, sashimi slice of salmon against Crowley’s mouth, and Crowley kept his lips pressed together, but Aziraphale let out a disapproving cluck of his tongue that made Crowley’s cock jolt, and Crowley opened his mouth. “You wish, I expect, that you could have a body… just a little more like mine, hm?”

Aziraphale sounded just slightly uncertain, his voice low, but Crowley heaved in a gasp, feeling the blush burn in his cheeks, and he whined around the fish in his mouth, chewing at it, tasting it,  _swallowing_ —

“Can’t,” Crowley said, shortly.

Aziraphale’s lips drew against the side of his jaw as he placed another dumpling in his mouth, and Crowley’s jaw shifted, and Aziraphale dragged his hand  _hard_  over his belly, and Crowley felt so full he would  _die_ , could feel the taut press beneath the skin— “ _Can’t_?” he repeated softly.

“Can’t. Sss’hard. To get a fat snake.”

“Mmm, I’m sure,” Aziraphale murmured, and both of his hands came down, now, both of them massaging and pressing and palpating at Crowley’s belly, and Crowley cried out, leaning back against Aziraphale’s chest and twisting in his lap, as if it might help him get away from the cramping pain, the mix of the pain and the  _satisfaction_. “You don’t eat much, do you?”

“No,” Crowley said. It was hard to talk, when Aziraphale was doing things to him, hard to convince his tongue to work, it was just so  _overwhelming_ , but Aziraphale pressed hard on his belly, hard enough that he felt like there was a  _wave_  in him, and Crowley keened. “No, no, I don’t… Don’t  _eat_  much, don’t like to be full, makes me too sleepy. Makes me tired, angel, you know that.”

“You ought see yourself,” Aziraphale murmured, and he grabbed at handfuls of Crowley’s belly,  _squeezing_  at him, and the pain made Crowley whimper and wriggle, heaving in desperate gasps. “You do look a picture, my dear, with this lovely belly, all swollen full for me.”

Another piece of flatbread was pressed against his mouth, and Crowley whimpered, even as he took it, licked Aziraphale’s fingers as the taste of some spicy curry, beautifully thick, burst upon his tongue.

“You know, you  _could_ ,” Aziraphale said.

“Couldn’t,” Crowley said. “Sss’ _uncomfortable_.”

“Oh, I could coach you through it, my love, I’m sure,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Wouldn’t you like that, hm? You might sleep all you like, and I should wake you up only to keep you like this, to feed you up… You’re handsome  _now_ , my dear, but I could make you  _plump_ , if you let me.”

It was just talk.

Crowley knew it was just talk, that it was part of the game, but his skin was burning with heat, and he was sweating, and his cock was so hard now it was  _dripping_ , leaving smears of wetness against his belly, and his  _belly_ , his belly  _ached_ , and he couldn’t bear it, couldn’t  _bear_  it— “That’d be… Perf— Perfect combination, angel, of gluttony and  _sssloth_.”

“Oh, I think so,” Aziraphale said warmly, and fed him another piece of the sashimi, and Crowley tried to inhale without putting too much pressure on his aching belly, but it was impossible. “Yes, I rather like the idea of keeping you in my bed, waking you only to feed you… You might really be my pampered pet then, hm? And how wonderfully you might keep me warm, Crowley, with a layer of plush fat upon this handsome body of yours…” He patted Crowley’s thigh, and Crowley gulped down the sashimi.

“There,” Aziraphale whispered. “All done!”

Relief bloomed in him like pollen bursting from a flower.

“Time for dessert,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley let out a cry. “You are my favourite temptation, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, patting his belly, and Crowley really did yelp, scrambling in his place.

“Really?” he asked blearily. “I think mine’s Eddie Kendricks.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Aziraphale tapped his belly again, and Crowley let out a noise, strangled and gasping, and Aziraphale brought a fork up to his mouth… It was cake. Not chocolate, thankfully, nothing so heavy: it was made with some green tea, sweet and light and airy, and he gulped it down, wincing at the way he  _cramped_.

Another forkful.

Another.

Aziraphale said, in a musing, thoughtful way – not as a threat, not even as a nasty implication, but simply as an idle, conversational thought, “I wonder if you  _could_ , you know. Rip at the seams, I mean.”

Crowley burst into tears.

It was simply too much, assaulting him at once: the pain in his stomach, in his jaw, the soft heat of Aziraphale’s body, the hard press of his hands, the way his cock was hard and twitching, his bollocks drawn tightly up, and he was hot and sweaty and  _full_  and he would die, and he said so, “Azzziraphale, I’ll  _die_ , you’re going to dissscorporate me, it’sss too  _much_ —"

“Oh, my darling, my  _darling_ ,” Aziraphale said, stroking Crowley’s belly in firm, smooth circles that were as painful as they were desperately soothing, and Crowley sobbed, felt the tears drip down his cheeks as Aziraphale untied the blindfold, and he wanted to bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck, but the prospect of moving his belly so much was impossible to face.

He looked down at his belly, and shuddered at the sight of it, the way his stomach rounded out, and he watched Aziraphale’s hand slowly rubbed in a circle once more, pressing down hard, grabbing at handfuls—

“ _Angel_ —”

“Oh, my dear, you do this to  _me_  all the time,” Aziraphale pointed out, his tone smug, and Crowley couldn’t stand how  _turned on_  he was. It was unspeakable, when Aziraphale chose to be quite this cruel, and he felt like the arousal would  _kill_  him, the way it was crackling under his skin like lightning. “You know, Crowley, I did wonder, once, if it was  _sinful_  of me, to so enjoy how you look when you cry, but you look so lovely when you do… You did pose, once, as Saint Sebastian, didn’t you?”

Crowley hiccoughed, his cheeks streaked with tears, and then nodded.

“And I thought,” Aziraphale murmured, his face full to the brim with  _indulgence_ : he often looked at Crowley, with indulgence, with love, and Crowley whined softly, “how ever could it be sinful? How ever could it be wrong, to bring you to tears, when you look so  _beautiful_  when you cry?”

Crowley heaved in a gasp, and Aziraphale’s hand wrapped tightly around his cock, and he squeezed at him, dragged his thumb over Crowley’s cockhead, and it was  _divine_ , or  _damned_ , or  _whatever_.

He couldn’t help it.

He came quickly, his come spattering over Aziraphale’s hand and his own belly, and Aziraphale soothed him as he drew a damp cloth over the skin, washing Crowley delicately off.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley exhaled hard, his head lolling against Aziraphale’s shoulder. He was tired, all of a sudden, so exhausted he could barely stand it: it was his instinct after a meal a  _fraction_  of this size to sleep it off, to take time to digest it, and  _this_? He felt like he’d sleep for  _weeks_. “Do you want me to stop rubbing your belly?”

“No,” Crowley blurted out quickly. “No, it’s better, it’s better, when you do…”

“That’s alright,” Aziraphale said softly, and he gave Crowley a softly encouraging smile, gently lifting him up from the chair and supporting Crowley against his belly as he lifted him up. Crowley whined at the movement, at the way it made his swollen gut shift, and Aziraphale drew him into the bed. He’d already folded back the quilt, ready for them, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered shut as Aziraphale gently set him upon his side, curling up behind him and wrapping his body around Crowley’s, his hand settling once more on Crowley’s belly.

“I’m  _tired_ ,” Crowley moaned.

“You can sleep it off, dear boy,” Aziraphale murmured, kissing the back of his neck, and he rubbed soothing circles on his belly again, and Crowley groaned quietly, sinking back against the soft, pillowy heat of Aziraphale’s body. “I didn’t take it too far, did I, my love?”

“No,” Crowley mumbled. “It wasss  _perfect_.”

He heard the smile in Aziraphale’s voice as he said, “Ah, good. But we won’t do that again for a  _long_  time, I think,” he said ruefully. “I do love you, dearheart, you sweet thing… Do sleep, Crowley, you need it. I shan’t wake you.”

Crowley didn’t hear him.

His face, already buried against the soft, warm pillow of Aziraphale’s arm, was slack in sleep.

Aziraphale smiled again.

**♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔** **☩** **♔**

Crowley was still fast asleep, his stomach retaining a noticeable swell under his suit, which Aziraphale hadn’t buttoned up all the way – as it would for a while, Aziraphale knew. He kept Crowley cradled carefully in his arms, carrying him up the stairs and through the bookshop, delicately ascending the stairs with the demon clutched in his arms. No one had really looked at them, as they had walked home, because Aziraphale hadn’t wanted them to.

Crowley barely stirred.

He hadn’t since he’d fallen asleep, as Aziraphale had expected, but that was alright: Aziraphale would look after him.

He settled down in the armchair, letting Crowley wind his way sleepily around his neck, snoring softly in his sleep, and Aziraphale kissed his cheek, letting him settle in his place. Crowley would be asleep for at least a few weeks...

Afterwards, Aziraphale thought, they might go on holiday somewhere, perhaps go to a nice cabin at a lakeside, where Crowley would swim. He’d want to do some light exercise – he always felt so terribly bloated and uncomfortable, when he overate, and while it was a sacrifice Aziraphale was fairly certain he had enjoyed—

 _Well_.

Best to soothe him somewhat, nonetheless. He only liked to see Crowley uncomfortable when it was part of the game itself, and because Crowley loved it so much. Now that the game was through, he merely wanted him to feel  _good_.

Absently, he rubbed Crowley’s back, and he felt Crowley sigh.

In his sleep, he hissed, “Angel…”

Aziraphale kissed the side of his temple, this time, and with Crowley a boa about his neck, he began to read his book over the demon’s shoulder. Yes. Yes, a holiday, after this, would be just the ticket.

 

[1] The lights in question were not, in fact, on dimmers, but Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t think of that.

[2] Nor pomegranate juice, which was what Crowley had used on his.

[3] In the beginning, outside Eden, Crowley had often tended toward winding himself around Aziraphale’s thighs of the time, which were strong, fat, and powerful, as was the fashion for angelic bodies at the time.

[4] In part, one might even say,  _because_  of the pain: he was a demon, after all.


End file.
